


The Wolf and the Sparrow

by mydreamworldisbetter



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: #BuckyNat Week, Angst and Feels, Bucky is a witch, BuckyNat Mini-Bang, F/M, Gym AU, How Do I Tag, Martial Arts, Natasha is a badass, Natasha is a werewolf, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, magick au, natasha is a pottymouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 23:37:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10424370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydreamworldisbetter/pseuds/mydreamworldisbetter
Summary: Some people live their whole lives without awakening the magick within them. Natasha and Bucky are not among them.Nat has been closed off to any relationship ever since the Incident, but when she meets Bucky at her gym and he won’t leave her alone, she can’t help but give into their connection. And it changes everything.Warning for underage non-con/rape. Nat is a werewolf; Bucky is a witch au.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Sam, Steve, and Bruce play a miniscule part in this fic, so if you came here hoping for a lot of these three ridiculous children, i'm sorry to disappoint. It's very Natasha/Bucky (mostly Natasha because natasha romanoff)-centric.

day 1

Nat lays her head against the wall, leans against it, inhales shakily. When she licks her lips, she tastes the salt of her own sweat. It is bittersweet to her. Rolling her shoulders to ease the tension there, she returns to the weights she’s been lifting. She’s been at this for far too long, is totally drained, but her brain won’t let her stop moving. It’s stuck on the Incident, repeating the moment before everything went bad over and over again. And no matter what her parents or her therapist have told her, she can’t stop ruminating or torturing or blaming herself. And it’s been ten years (the 11th anniversary is in three months and seventeen days), and she should be over it by now.

But she’s not. She’s fucking not. So she comes to the gym every day (sometimes twice) and does her best to work through her demons for long enough to get through the rest of day. She has her own corner now, and none of the regulars try to to talk to her, and she sweats and labors and purifies herself.

It’s a poor way to exist. But at least she’s alive.

_Five more reps_ , she tells herself. She’s got to find the strength somewhere. She glances furtively around the room. No one is watching her. _Good_ . Instinctively, razor-sharp canines extend from her gums. Her forehead wrinkles, and her nose twitches, and her irises yellow. Enough power seeps into her muscles to lift five, six, seven, _eight_ more times. Finally satisfied, finally sated, she drops to the ground and gently stretches herself out of this deep exhaustion, and better still, the manic headspace she’s been stuck in since she woke up at 4:13 a.m. this morning.

She presses her upper body into the floor, legs spread wide into splits (yes, she’s flexible), and breathes there, counting to thirty. As she rolls up on her spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, and wipes the sweaty tendrils from her forehead, she feels someone’s eyes on her. Across the floor, over by the drinking fountain, is a man. His hair is longer than hers, she notices. He’s more slender than the other guys that generally frequent the gym, but he doesn’t look weak. She’s never seen him here before. Must be why he’s staring.

Bracing herself, she stares back, nostrils flared. Her teeth grind and grate across each other. Inside, she is frozen with fear, but her body projects anger, hatred. A challenge. But he doesn’t seem frightened.

A beefy, blonde man, Steve, she thinks his name is (he’s been frequenting the gym as long as she has and seems as troubled as her, too), walks up to the new guy, sees the stare, taps his shoulder, says something to him with eyebrows drawn close together. New guy nods, bends over the fountain and fills his bottle, talking animatedly all the while. She can’t hear him over the grunts of show-offs and the pounding beat from the loudspeakers even with her senses dialed all the way up, so she shakes her head and chugs the last of the water from her bottle.

Steve and his friend walk off together towards the track. Not-Steve glances back at her  and smiles. She doesn’t smile back.

 

day 2

She wakes up early, arrives at the gym before the manager does. He unlocks the door and opens it for her, nodding politely. She likes Bruce. He doesn’t talk a lot, and he’s small, has a mess of wild curls and graying stubble. He’s probably the least threatening man she’s ever met. She can’t figure out how someone like him would end up running a gym, and likely, she’ll never find out (she doesn’t intend to ask).

She’s struggling to pull her hair into some semblance of a ponytail (sometimes she really regrets chopping it off) in the unisex locker room when someone clears their throat behind her. She whips around, nose quivering to take in the scent. It’s the man from yesterday, the one who stared.

“Excuse me. I just..my locker,” he says. His voice is pleasant enough, she supposes. Not that she cares.

“Oh. Yeah, sorry.” She steps aside. Her whole body is tense with his nearness. Danger, it screams. She tells it to hush, reminds it that she could take this guy out, no problem.

“Hey, how’d you get so bendy anyways?” he says, glancing at her with a disarming grin.

“Practice,” she snaps. She snatches up her water bottle and marches out, head high, hands trembling. _It’s fine_ , she tells herself. _He was just being friendly. Normal people are like that._  

She’s sore after pushing herself so hard yesterday, she notes. She doesn’t have to come into work til noon today, so she has time to take things slow. She heads towards the treadmill, hops onto it, shoves earbuds in her ears, and starts jogging.

The rhythm has just started thrumming through her bones when she senses someone beside her. The scent is familiar (campfire smoke and soap and argan oil--what kind of man uses argan oil?), and automatically, she matches it to the new guy. Without turning her head, she glances to her right, and yes. It’s him. He’s stretching his arms in the air as he warms up, walking with a long-limbed, steady pace, the sinews and stringy muscles pulled tight against his jacket. He turns, catches her staring, grins widely. She bites her tongue until she tastes the copper of her own blood and looks away, watches her feet intently as they eat up the track.

She cuts her workout short that day. His invasion of her time, her bubble, disorients her, ruins the magic. Her sleep is troubled that night, and she vows to work out hard tomorrow, no matter how annoying he’s being.

 

day 3

He’s at the door before her this time. She almost turns around and leaves, but her wolf-nature growls at her that this is her territory, hers, and she won’t let some spindly male move her off of it. So she stands stiffly beside him, ignores Bruce’s raised eyebrows as he unlocks the door. She stalks past him and slams her bag into her locker.

“Are you okay?” the man says, close behind her. “I’m James, by the way. Bucky for short. Steve said your name’s Nat?”

She barely glances up at him, just keeps on lacing up her gym shoes. But she can’t ignore the hand that he’s stuck out in front of him, so she stands up and pushes past him.

“Did I do something--”

“Leave me alone,” she bites out. She doesn’t dare meet his eyes. “You keep on talking to me, I’ll fuck you up. Just try me.” Her voice is deadly quiet, and she puts every ounce of her anger and hatred into the words.

She can hear him swallow. “I’m sorry.” He sits down heavily as she walks out of the locker room.

She takes out her fear (because yes, it is fear, not fury or hostility) on the track, loping in long, easy strides, then sprinting madly every few miles. Every so often, she stops to stretch and fill her belly with water. When she leaves, she doesn’t spot him anywhere. _Good_ , she thinks, ignoring the burn in her muscles, the thickness in her lungs. _Maybe I scared him off._

 

day 4

She hasn’t.

He shows up at the gym halfway through her workout, Steve in tow. She glares at him from her corner, and he smiles sweetly back. She flips him off and returns to child’s pose, feels her breath swell inside her ribcage and onto her thighs.

“Hey.” It’s him. _Bucky_.

“Really? You’re interrupting my practice--”

“What’s your problem? What did I do to you?”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she can see Steve shaking his head, brow furrowed like some mopey, worried golden retriever.

“Didn’t I tell you to fuck off?”

“Yeah, you did. And I wanna know why. I was just trying to be friendly.”

She snorts. “Or hit on me.”

His forehead wrinkles. “No, that’s not what I was doing at all. Not that I wouldn’t. Because you’re pretty. Like really beautiful.” He bites his lip in consternation. Fascinated, she watches his teeth worry the chapped skin, then tears her gaze away when she realizes with a start that she’s been watching him for way too long.

“I don’t want a friend. I want to work out in peace.” She bites out the words, tries to make sure that he understands her.

He sighs. “I really am sorry. I just feel like...we could teach each other some stuff. I’d like to get into yoga, I think. We could help each other.”

“Then find a teacher. You don’t need me for that.” She pushes disdain onto her face.

He’s back to biting his lip again. She hates him, how pretty he looks in his obvious distress and honesty and confusion.

“So. I guess I’ll leave then.”

“Yep.” She takes a deep breath and shifts into crow, balancing her whole body on her hands. She feels calm perched like this, upside down, eyes shut. When she opens them, he is nowhere to be found. She feels a flash of disappointment but doesn’t stop to wonder why.

 

day 5

He isn’t at the gym. At all.

 

day 6

There’s still no sign of him.

 

day 7

And still.

 

day 8

She tries to be grateful that things are back to normal. No one looks at her or talks to her, and if they’re thinking about her, she can’t tell. But she keeps looking for him, for Bucky, keeps waiting for him to be there, annoying her and being kind and pretty. She scowls the whole time she lifts weights, glowers as she does pull up after pull up, glares as she climbs the rock wall with just her hands, hanging like a spider from its web. She’s still scowling as she leaves the gym. She doesn’t even nod at Bruce.

 

day 9

She stays home. Her stomach is aching all along the scar from the Incident, and she knows she’s pushed herself too far and too hard this week.

“Goddamn PTSD,” she mutters as she shuffles around her kitchen, brewing a doubly strong cup of coffee with a few shots of espresso (she doesn’t really count anymore). “Can’t do anything right. Always ruins everything.” Working out helps her until she does it too much. Then it doesn’t and all she can feel is the pain and fear in her body.

She lays on the ground while it brews, rolling her aching shoulders, clenching and releasing her muscles.

And then, there’s that non-stop tightness in her head, behind her eyes that she’s been ignoring. She’s put off changing for too long, she figures. It makes her cranky and tired, but she hates the rush of emotions that accompany the transition into wolf, and it’s not much fun without a pack to run with. Experimentally, she growls; her fangs spring out eagerly. Yeah, she’s way past due.

She groans aloud, slouches to her room and pulls out the suitcase stuffed with energy drinks and food for times like this. She checks for the blankets and sweatpants then grabs her keys. The specialist’s words ring in her head: _it’s important to be overly prepared when changing by yourself. Everything necessary for aftercare needs to be readily available because of the toll it takes on your body and mind._

She growls irritably, shaking her head. She can feel her bones shifting. She needs to stop thinking about the change, about how it’ll feel to run and run and run and kill and feast. She steps on the gas, goes as fast as she dares. There. The exit that leads to the the huge expanse of woods is there. She’s close. She feels a howl bubbling up her throat and curses herself for procrastinating to this point.

She pulls up to the clearing in the woods, strips her clothes off frantically, leaps out of the car. When she lands, she is all russet fur and snapping teeth and twisting, lithe muscles. The howl comes loose at last, and it shakes the leaves of the mighty trees, echoes back to her pricked, powerful ears. And she runs, feeling everything she’s been suppressing: anger and grief and fear and triumph and lust, and she runs.

When she comes upon a rabbit, she does not hesitate to pounce. The blood that flows from its ripped-open veins is as titillating to her senses as strong alcohol, and she tears into its flesh with abandon and fierce joy.

Eventually, the need to be wild and be wolf passes. She feels her mind return to her, broken piece after broken piece, and when she wakes up, she is shaking and naked next to her car. She is exhausted beyond anything, but the night is coming on fast, so she pushes herself to wrap a blanket around her shoulders and suck down a Monster (something dark inside laughs at the irony in it) til she feels strong enough to get dressed again.

She drives slowly, vigilant, fighting to keep her eyes open the whole way home.

At the door, she fumbles for her keys. All she can do is drop into her bed and lay there, let the night come and then the morning.

 

day 10

She lays in bed all day. She’s tired still, but her head is clear now. _You’ve been an absolute asshole_ , her logical mind tells her emotional mind. The barrier that stops her feelings from impacting her is weak from the change, and guilt washes over her like a flood. _Why would you treat anyone like you treated that man?_ she berates herself. Remorse tears at her in her sleep and when she is awake. Restlessly, she shifts around, kicking the sheets off then pulling them back on, rolling back and forth, flipping her pillow to find the coolest side.

_I’ll apologize_ , she says to herself in an effort to sate the shame, to plug the dam that threatens to drown her.

_No you won’t; you’re nothing but a coward; you won’t do anything---_

_I will I will I will I promise._

 

day 12

He is standing alone. Good. She steels herself and goes to him, posture far more confident than she actually is. “Hey, Steve.”

“Nat?”

“Yeah, hi.”

He’s obviously confused, scratches at his straw-gold hair, but he pulls himself out of his shock quickly. “We’ve never met officially.” He sticks his hand out, all huge muscles and gentlemanly manners.

Soberly, she takes his hand and shakes it.

“Um, could you maybe tell your friend Bucky that...that I’m sorry. For how I...was...when he talked to me. Or looked at me. I...yeah. That’s all.”

He stares at her, blue eyes gone squinty, forehead all wrinkled up. “Of course, yeah, I can do that,” he manages to call to her rapidly retreating back.

She exhales deeply, all the breath she’s been holding rushing out at once. She did it. She apologized. (By proxy, but still.) The guilt isn’t gnawing at her anymore. She doesn’t feel the need to totally exhaust herself to beat down the beast inside. She lets a smile slide across her face for a moment before swallowing it back down.

 

day 13

She’s hanging from the the ceiling like a spider, knees clenched around a rope, arms spread wide for a moment before gripping it tightly again. _The closer I get to the sky, the freer I feel_ , she thinks. She says it aloud, tastes the words, lets them roll around on her tongue before sliding down again. Stepping back, she bumps into someone. Her heart jumps into her throat; she whips around and is met with stormy gray eyes and messy hair.

“Bucky,” she breathes.

He lets the tension sit a moment, smiles his slow, sweet grin. “Hey.”

“Did...did Steve tell you...” It’s hard for her to speak, to find the right words.

He nods. “It’s alright. I forgive you.”

“Thanks. I get...snappy sometimes.” A nervous giggle jumps out of her when she thinks about the secret truth in that statement.

He chuckles a little, like he understands the joke. His eyes are kind. She hadn’t noticed that before.

“So, do you--”

“I’d still like to be left alone,” she whispers.

He nods once. “Well. I guess I’ll see you around. Bye, Nat.”

She half-waves, bites her tongue, does anything to avoid _feeling_ , to ignore what her body is begging her to do (run after him and say yes, I want to work out with you, yes, I’ll teach you yoga, yes) because she doesn’t understand why she’s so drawn to this skinny scraggly man.

 

day 14

Whenever he sees her, he smiles, like he’s happy about it or something.

 

15

Whenever she sees him, she almost smiles. (She can’t help it.)

 

day 16

When his eyes catch hers from across the room, she shivers. Heat coils in her gut, and she has to breathe carefully and drink all her water to calm down.

 

day 17

God, but she’s pitiful, she tells herself. She’s been waiting in her corner, anxious, leg bouncing non-stop since she left the note in his locker.

She hears his steps, inhales his scent long before arrives, but she won’t look his direction until he’s standing right in front of her.

“I’m glad you changed your mind,” he says. His voice is buttery smooth, and unconsciously, she leans into it.

“It’s only for a day,” she says grudgingly.

“Mhm.”

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she sighs, suddenly unable to be anything but vulnerable. “It’s you, something about you...” Horrified, she snaps her mouth shut, teeth clicking sharply together.

Kindly, he pretends he hasn’t heard her, just reaches out his hand to help her up. She takes it. His skin is warm and calloused. He works hard, uses his hands and his strength, she guesses.

“So...you wanna stretch?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Um...”

“You lead. I’ll follow.” There’s a smirk on his face, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Sure. Start in crocodile--lying down--and breathe down deep in your stomach.”

 

She thanks him when they’re finished, both winded and happy. And she dares to look at him full on, meets his eyes, feels them swallow her whole. She wants to touch him, she realizes, wants to run her hands through his hair and across his face, get to know its contours. Mentally, she shakes herself, reaches out a hand. He takes it solemnly, light dancing across lips.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

She raises her eyebrows. “We’ll see.”

He laughs.

 

day 18

He does. He sees her tomorrow.

 

day 19

And the day after.

 

day 21

It’s the fifth time they’ve worked out together. Afterwards, he invites her to his apartment, and his eyes are so nervous and hopeful that she can’t say no. It’s small and bare, somehow what she expected, and there’s a punching bag that she can see through the open door of his bedroom.

She can’t stop eyeing it, and he must notice, because he asks her around the chicken salad stuffing his mouth, “Do you fight?”

“Used to,” she says shortly, thinking of the many martial arts she threw herself into after the Incident, a vain attempt to protect herself.

“Wanna hit it?”

Her eyebrows climb up her forehead. “This what you usually do when you have friends over?”

Maybe it’s her imagination, but she thinks she sees his face fall when she says the word “friends.”

He shrugs, though, and says, “You seem a little tense. Thought it might help.”

She takes a deep breath, wondering how he can read her so easily. “That might help. Thanks.”

“Be right back.” He leaps off the counter and charges to a room in the back, a storage closet probably. She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing, feels her stomach rise and fall, feels the cool air at the base of her nostrils as she inhales and the warm air as she exhales. She rolls her finger over her stim ring, spinning and spinning her way into her safe brain. Compartmentalizing. Nothing is going to happen, she tells herself. Bucky is a good person. He is not going to hurt you. Nothing is going to happen.

He bounds back, puppylike in his excitement. “Gloves?” he says, shoving a basket at her. She can’t help but grin a little. His joy is infectious. He reaches for her hands. “You’re not  that small. These should work.” He holds up a pair.

_His hands are warm and rough and safe_ , she thinks. Then, _why safe?_

“Here, let me wrap you,” he’s saying, and she shakes her head because she’s not ready for that level of intimacy, not ready to place her trust in him.

So he hands her the wrap without question. She wraps her own hands, her muscles easily remembering how it works even though it’s been a long time. It feels good. Tight. Secure. She’s missed this.

He slides the gloves (black and worn) onto her hands. She extends her fingers and then makes a fist. She feels a familiar rush fill her veins and grins a little.

“I’ll hold it for you. You look like you hit hard.”

“Damn straight,” she nearly growls. She licks her teeth, letting her wolf-nature claw its way to the front of her consciousness. She stalks over to the bag, runs her fingertips over it, strokes the leather.

 

He smiles to see her fierceness and braces himself against the bag, one foot back in a half-lunge, lets her pound into it. He knew she’d be strong, but even so, he is surprised and shaken as her power pushes him back. And she punches and punches and punches her way through of whatever dark place her mind had gone.

“Nat. Nat?” She lifts her head, teeth bared, eyes yellowed. “I need a break,” he laughs. It’s true; he does. He’s sweaty, and his arms are shaking from holding it still so long.  

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No worries. You’re strong, that’s all.”

She smiles, bashful and sweet. He doesn’t understand how her wolf-ness can come and go so quickly. Ever since he met her he’s seen it lurking at the surface, waiting for an opportunity to leap out and protect her.

He thinks it’s beautiful.

He sits on the bed and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand.

“So...why do you keep a bag in your room?”

“I get nightmares,” he says. Her expression softens in understanding. “It helps to work off the fear.”

“I know--” she stops to clear her throat; her voice has gone whispery and shaky-- “I know what you mean.”

Their eyes meet, and in that moment, they can sense the other completely. It’s more animalistic, more complete than anything he’s experienced in awhile. He forgets to breath, just stares at her until she gasps sharply and ducks away.

“I gotta...hang on...” she calls helplessly. She slips into the bathroom; the lock clicks closed. He leans against the door, knocks gently.

“Nat. It’s okay. I know what you are.”

“No.” Her voice breaks off in a sob. “You don’t. You can’t--”

“It’s okay. My sister is too.”

Her breathing quickens. “No. She’s not what I am. Trust me.”

“Nat. Let me in.”

“Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You’ve got ten seconds before I break the door down.”

He counts down in his head. At _one_ , the lock clicks open. She’s wild-eyed and dripping with sweat, and he takes her in her arms. Her body stills, but eventually, she goes limp, lets him take her weight. He slides down, leaning against the cabinet, lets her heaving sobs crash against him like waves against a pier.

She calms down after awhile.

“What was the trigger?” he asks gently.

She shrugs. Glances away.

“Tell me so it doesn’t happen again.”

He can see the wheels turning in her head, can sense her overthinking, trying to find a way to tell him without _really_ telling him.

“I haven’t connected like that with someone in a long time,” she starts. “It just...brought back some stuff.”

“So I’m the trigger.”

She shakes her head. “It’s probably good, a good exposure. My therapist tells me I need to disassociate, find triggers and break them down.”

He pulls her against his chest again, strokes her hair, massages the base of her neck, sends peace through his fingertips into her skin. She shivers and leans into him.

“Feels good,” she murmurs, nuzzling his collarbone.

“Gotta get you home,” he whispers. She’s fading fast. His magick can do that to people sometimes. He doesn’t mean to. It just happens.

“No. Wanna stay here. With you.”

He swallows. “Okay. Come on then. Let’s get you to the couch.”

Her fingers are twisted into his shirt, and she won’t let go, so he lifts her. She presses her mouth to his neck, and he has to bite his lip hard to stop from kissing her or doing something stupid because he’s not _blind_ ; she’s sexy as hell and beautiful and captivating. But it’s not what she needs, and they’re not there yet.

He sighs. Why he couldn’t have listened when Steve told him to leave her alone he doesn’t know. But he felt the need to know her, and now, he feels her need for him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs mindlessly. “I’m here I’ve got you you’re safe.”

He lays her gently on the couch, covers her in blankets, sits beside her and strokes her hair and back. Sends her peace.

  


day 25

“I’m training for a marathon. Wanna do it with me?” he asks behind the punching bag.

“When is it?”

“Few months.”

“You’re assuming this--” she gestures between them-- “will still be going on. Whatever it is.”

His smile is positively wicked. “Won’t it?”

She rolls her eyes, but the gesture is affectionate, indulgent.

He laughs. It echoes through the gym, and they get a few more stares than she used to. Somehow, she can’t bring herself to care.

 

day 30

_It_ is still going on.

Bucky is smug.

Nat ignores him.

(Secretly she loves it.)

 

day 33

“Wanna get coffee later?” he asks.

“I have to work.” She rolls up her yoga mat, places it carefully in her bag.

“Only until 5:30,” he says, mischief alight in his eyes.

“Stalker,” she mutters.

“Come on. It’ll be fun. There’s this little place downtown I think you’d like.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “Send me the address. I’ll meet you at 6:00.”

He’s biting his lip, but it’s not in distress or confusion. He’s happy, she realizes, happy and trying to stomp it down so he doesn’t scare her off. She feels a flash of tenderness in her chest for him. It is warm and protective and wanting, and she wonders that someone she’s known for such a short time has impacted her so deeply.

 

“I’m a goddamn caffeine junkie,” Bucky groans as the door opens and he’s hit with a solid wall of aroma.

“I like tea better,” Nat mumbles.

He halts dramatically. “For real? We can’t be friends now.”

Giggling, she jabs him sharply in the ribs.

“I’m kidding. You knew I was kidding, right?”

“You’re an idiot, Bucky Barnes.”

“Yep.” He pushes his hair out of his face, scratches his stubble, stretches. When his arm bumps her, she doesn’t really mind, just leans into it, into him.

“This is nice,” he says when they’re sitting at a table, hands wrapped around steaming mugs.

“What is?”

“Us. Here together. Not working out. Just being.”

“I guess.” She stares into the cup, pokes at the mint tea infuser bobbing gently.

“Is this okay?” His voice is concerned.

“What? Yeah, it’s fine. I’m happy. Really. I just don’t usually do this.”

“I know.”  

They sit in companionable silence.

Nat comments on the tea.

Bucky notices the kids across from them.

Nat begs a taste of his Americano.

Bucky points out the blue in the green of her eyes. Bucky chews at his lip. Bucky brushes his hand across her fingers, sends her a bit of what he feels at this moment without really meaning to.

Nat jumps, eyes wide. “You’re... _other_?”

He shrugs. “A witch. And you?”

She nods. Doesn’t elaborate.

“I know. I’ve always known, since I saw you for the first time.” He stirs his coffee. “There are more of us than you think.”

“Who else?”

“Steve, for one. And Sam.”

“You know what I am, and you still wanted to be my friend?” She laughs disbelievingly. “I’m a monster.”

“I think it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

She shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly.

“No, it’s fine. I think you’re beautiful, too.” She laughs. It is is not a happy sound. “What are we doing? What is this?”

“Whatever you want it to be.”

“No. No. Be honest. Do you...have...feelings? For me?”

“How could anyone help it? You’re...you.”

Her hands grip tight and tighter on the half-empty mug.

“Careful. It’s gonna break. I know you’re crazy strong.”

She breathes deep and releases her hold. “Sorry. It’s just--” she smiles and blinks and laughs and shakes her head. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I can’t--” She stands up and leaves the coffee shop, arms wrapped around her body protectively.

“Shit.” Bucky pushes his hair hopelessly off of his forehead. “That’s not how that was supposed to go.”

 

day 34

She isn’t at the gym

 

day 35

And still.

 

day 38

He doesn’t text or call, doesn’t want to rush her or worry her or scare her away. But it’s been awhile now, and he’s worried, so he texts her.

_u okay? didn’t mean to scare u off._

 

day 40

And two days later, she writes back.

_sorry, im just a shit person to have feelings for is all._ then _idk how to cope with you telling me_.

_if you come back to the gym we could work it out??? i don’t want to lose your friendship._

the little ellipses thing that shows she’s typing switches between dots for a long time before she says _sure. see you tomorrow?_

_bright and early. bring your gloves. we can spar._

She sends a thumbs up and the boxing glove emoji because emojis are her thing and even hurting as much as she is, she’s got to keep up appearances, and he sighs and runs his thumbs wistfully over the words before getting up to make himself some more coffee.

 

day 41

He waits anxiously for her by the punching bag. He already stretched, muscles loose and limber, and he feels sick to his stomach and sweaty because he didn’t mean to hurt her but he did, he always hurts the people that he loves the most. He almost cries in relief when he sees her, shoulders drawn down and hair covering her face.

“Nat,” he says, pitifully eager.

She glances up at him through the veil of red, one side of her mouth twitching in greeting.

“I’ll hold for you,” he says.

“Haven’t warmed up yet,” she mumbles.

“Okay. I’ll just...do it with you?”

She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

He hates this, seeing her shut down and pitifully quiet and only a shadow of herself. He almost preferred it when she hated him because there was strength there.

He kicks the bag experimentally, tries to suppress his desire to wrap his arms around her and hold her and shout apologies and whisper promises because he can’t stand this space between him, and _yes_ he’s only known her for a month but she’s become everything and God he’s going crazy. His magick swirls anxiously under his skin, spins around in his belly til he’s disoriented and sleepy and tense and wild.

She stands finally, pulling gloves over her wrapped fists. “Ready?”

She smacks the bag. Hard. He can feel her wolf self underneath the skin, ready to protect her, and he sends his love out to it, imagines stroking its ears and burying fingers into thick fur, lets it feel safe with him.

“I’m sorry,” she says under her breath each time she strikes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m _sorry._ ”

“Nat.”

She looks up wildly at him.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I ruined everything,” she hisses.

“No, you didn’t. Just tell me what’s going on so I can understand, so I can fix what I did wrong.”

“Nothing. It’s me, it’s all me.” She’s almost howling now, her anguish so clear and loud that it brings pain to his heart to witness it.

“Then _tell_ me.”

“ _I can’t._ ”

Then she’s collapsing down against the bag, gasping, chest heaving, and he freezes before he collects himself enough to pick her up and take her to the locker room.

“Panic attack,” she tells him inbetween tremors, and he nods his understanding.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

She shakes her head. “Just stay with me.”

“I can do that.”

He waits with her for it to peak and come down, and when his arm strokes her back tentatively, she shivers and hesitates, and he’s about to apologize and take it away when she leans into it.  

“That doesn’t usually happen,” she says finally. She looks around, sighs at the lockers. “Well, I can never come here again.”

Bucky holds in a giggle, but a piece of it slips out anyways. He bites his lip apologetically, and she shakes her head and smiles and laughs, and if he notices that some tears come out too, he’s kind and doesn’t mention it.

He takes a deep breath, tries to make it better, the _thing_ between them. “I won’t talk about how I feel about you if you don’t want me to.”

She nods. “Maybe that would be good. For now, at least.”

“Okay. It’s a deal.” He sticks out a hand, and she takes it.

 

day 47

They slip back into their friendship carefully, tiptoeing around each other's triggers. And it’s nice, and it feels natural and fulfilling.

But he wants more, wants it to go deeper, wants to share what he’s suffered and lost because he trusts her. He can’t help it. She’s laid herself raw and bare before him without meaning to, and he wants to return the favor because for him, that’s what makes a relationship worth it. But he can’t find a way to without scaring her off, so he’s wary and vigilant and holds her if she lets him.

 

Guilt consumes her again. _He ruined it by catching feelings, by talking about them_ , she tries to tell herself.

_You ruined it by being so fucked up_ , herself shoots back. If you were normal, you’d be sleeping with him already. He’d be your boyfriend. You’d be happy.

She laughs. “I don’t know what happiness is,” she says aloud. _I’m already pitiful_ , she thinks. _Might as well talk to myself and seal my fate_.

Liho-the-cat bats at her leg, and she smiles half-heartedly at her.

 

day 56

It’s raining hard; the sky is dark and angry. It’s the perfect night him to soak in his own magick and practice some things he’s been wanting to try. But his bell rings frantically, and he opens the door to find Nat, completely soaked and shivering.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I need to tell you something. Before this (whatever it is) goes anywhere else serious.”

“Yeah. Okay. Sure. Come in.”

She’s twitching, fingers buzzing round each other, sure tells that she’s very nervous.

“Can I help you at all?” He holds out his hands. “I’ve got a lot of calm left.”

She shakes her head.

“Then at least let me get a blanket for you. You’re shaking.”

“I don’t really feel it.”

They sit on the couch together.

“When I was in the eighth grade,” she starts, then stops, fists clenched and voice panicky. “Fuck. Okay. When I was in the eighth grade...”

 

_When Natasha was in the eighth grade, she was desperately lonely and heartbreakingly beautiful. Making friends was hard, and her parents were kind and distant, and she was the only child. All the boys at school were far too juvenile and far too obvious, and so she poured out her heart to the neighbor across the street who’d always been so nice to her. His name was Ivan, and he hailed from the motherland, just like her family. He taught her Russian because her parents wouldn’t, and he was always kind, always unsuspecting._

_And one, she knocked on his door like usual, and he said “come in” as usual. Then something was slipped over her face, and she fell deeply asleep, terror in her bones, and she woke up in a little room with a locked door and no windows--_

 

“Are you okay?”

She shakes her head violently. “No. But you need to know. Me. Who I am.”

“It can wait, seriously.”

“Shut up and let me tell you.”

 

_He came by often, spoke only Russian to her (she’s hated the language ever since). He’d talk about their understanding, how well they knew each other, how he loved her so. He’d hug her, stroke her face, take her over and over again til she ached with the familiar, hated feeling of him inside her._

_All the time she was there, she never cried. She locked her mind up and pretended like it wasn’t real, like it was just a nightmare, like this person that she’d trusted, that she’d had a deep connection with, hadn’t betrayed her like this._

_And when she slept, she felt something growing within her, something powerful and wild and angry, and she didn’t understand it, but she fed it with her hatred and stubbornness._

_One day, after he left her sore and naked on the floor without so much as a word, she felt a shifting, an intense twinge in her bones. She let it happen because even death would be better than this existence._

_It wasn’t death. It was life. She had four legs and claws and the sharpest fangs, and her hackles rose when she scented Ivan in her room, and saliva dripped from her tongue when her wolf-mind imagined ripping his intestines from his body. I will destroy him when he comes back, she decided._

_But her wolf-body betrayed her, changed her back into human. Ivan came, and she let him take what he wanted from her like she always did. Didn’t fight. Just survived._

_“You’re old enough to reciprocate now,” he told her one day._

_She glanced up at him, startled, through weary eyes. Her wolf-ness had come only thrice after the first time, and it always left her exhausted, and it never lasted long enough to save her._

_“You know what I mean.”_

_“No. No. No,” she muttered, over and over._

_He rose up, towered above her. “What are you saying, little girl.”_

_“No. Enough. Enough.” Her voice rose and rose til she was screaming, growling the words. And it happened. Fangs broke through her gums. Her eyes yellowed, snout elongated, muscles and bones twitched and broke and stretched._

_Ivan had heard of such things, people that had magick inside them. People that were not really human. But he’d never imagined that his Natalia would be one of them. He reached to unlock the door, but he was not fast enough to get through it._

_The last thing he saw was the dripping mouth of a predator far greater than him._

 

“I ran and ran and ran. I don’t know for how long. I arrived at my parents’ house naked and shaking. They thought I was dead. They’d given up.”

“Oh, Nat.” His fingers spark with anger, and tears well up in his eyes for the wrong that has been done to her.

“It’s okay. It was in the past. It’s over now. He’s dead, and I’m...this.” She gestures to herself, laughs without laughing at all, dark and melancholy.

“It’s not okay. It’s not. If he wasn’t dead, I’d find him right now, and the things I’d do to him...”

“You’re a good friend, Bucky.”

“You’re a good person, Nat.”

She nestles into him, and he wraps his arms around her and holds her close and closer.

“I love you,” he breathes in her hair, quietly enough that there’s no way that she can hear. He sends the feeling through her, lets it seep through his skin into hers. Because he does. He loves her.

 

She stays in his arms until it is time for her to go. He tries to tell her that it is late, that she needs to go home, but she just mutters something and nuzzles deeper into the blanket cocoon they’d made. He can’t bear to tell her no, so she stays.

 

day 57

And she wakes up wrapped around him, ear against his chest, letting his heartbeat regulate hers. It’s so intimate to see him like this, childlike and innocent, without a witty retort or easy smile to protect him. She runs a gentle hand down his hair, rubs her fingers against his stubble. Feels her heart jump at the contact, at his nearness, at how beautiful he is.

_Oh_ , she thinks.

After the Incident, she didn’t believe she’d ever _like_ anyone ever again. She’d just started noticing boys (and girls if she was being honest) when he kidnapped her away. It was like he’d blocked something up inside. She didn’t want love or intimacy, and neither she couldn’t feel it.

But here she is, ten years later, looking intently at a person she knows and trusts and feeling something wake inside her, something wanting and warm.

_Oh..._

And his eyes flutter open, and he smiles to see her staring down at him like a mother bird protecting its young.

“How are you doing this morning?” he asks, and she knows that by that he means “do you want to run away now that you’ve told me this?”

So she drops back on top of him and whispers, “I’m not moving, I’m staying here forever.”

“Good,” he breathes. “I’ve got you.”

 

It’s going to take some adjusting, she figures, some hard work to come to terms with how she feels and what to do with it. But she isn’t opposed to it, though she doesn’t know why. As she walks home, letting the sun warm her skin, she skips a little, stomps in the remainder of a puddle.

Her shoes are soggy by the time she gets home. She doesn’t care.

 

day 59

“Did you know that almost no one is born with their magick fully developed?” Bucky asks over a mouthful of cereal.

“Hm.” Nat is laying down, arms and legs stretched out, on his floor, staring up the ceiling that Steve painted for him (clouds) and finding shapes there.

“It’s because of...a defining moment. It shocks the inactive genes into working.”

“So trauma. You mean trauma.” She pushes herself up onto her elbows. “What was yours?” She blushes. “I mean...oh. Fuck me. That was very rude, wasn’t it.”

He snorts, spraying chewed cheerio mash across the table.

She giggles her way back to lying down.

“You wanna me to tell you?”

“You’ve heard mine, so it’s about time. I mean, if you’re comfortable sharing.” She flushes, ashamed of her rudeness.

He shakes his head because she’s so perfect the way she is. He loves how irreverent and honest she is and has always been; it never gets old.

“When I was little, Steve and I would always mess around at the tracks near our apartments.”

 

_Bucky is all wide-eyed explorer, all big-heart and protective friend-brother, and one of his and Stevie’s favorite thing to do is set pennies or bottles or cans or anything they can think of on the tracks for the trains to squish flat. His ma and Steve’s ma always warn them to-leave-that-place-alone-it’s-too-dangerous, and of course they never listen because they’re Bucky and Steve. They’re brave and strong and they can go anywhere and do anything._

_One day, school has just ended, and Steve steps in between a tiny girl and her overgrown-attacker, and per usual, gets punched square in the nose and won’t back down, and per usual, Bucky steps in. And the bully threatens to find them and rip their skinny little arms from their bodies, and Bucky puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders and tries to keep him from making faces at the guy. They hurry to the train station to hide from the bully and their mothers both._

_But they are followed there. The bully and a group of his friends come at them, and Bucky gets in front of Steve because of course they target the weakest, sickest fourth grader in the state, and it’s not fair, and protecting Steve is Bucky’s job. He promised Steve’s mom. But he trips over a pebble and falls barely into the tracks just as a train whooshes by, and it’s a very good thing he blacks out eventually because the pain is too much, too much, and the fear is even worse._

_When he wakes up, his arm doesn’t really work that well, and there’s something sparking angrily beneath his skin._

_When he gets out of the hospital, arm withered and so scarred he only will wear long-sleeved shirts, he’s more quiet and less daring. But it takes the same bullies messing with Steve again for him to discover the real difference that’s come to him, because somehow all six of them end up splayed on the ground, screaming in terror and pain, and his fingertips are sparking with power and something he’ll come to call magick._

_Eventually, he figures out a way to magick his arm back to functionality. It’s never very pretty, though, distinct, twisted scars going row after row all the way down the limb._

 

“That’s not why I have nightmares, though,” he says, and he breathes and tips his head back. He hasn’t thought about the next part in a while now, and he did not anticipate that it would hurt this much to go back.

“You don’t have to--”

“I do.”

Nat just wraps her arms around him tighter (she’s ended up practically in his lap somewhere during the story, and he doesn’t really mind).

 

_Those bullies--there were four of them--never forgot what the little boy had done to them. When Steve and Bucky joined the army, they were right behind them, earning their trust. They were their brothers. And when the opportunity came, on a night off, they set upon Bucky, stripped off his shirt and tied him down and slid a huge rusty blade down each scar so it burned anew. And while they did, they shouted for him to apologize, to speak unspeakable things about himself and Steve. They whispered in his ear that he was worthless and a freak and disgusting, that he should be ashamed for being such a fucking faggot, a weak little girl. That he wasn’t human, wasn’t worth being saved. Wasn’t worth anyone’s time or love. Wasn’t worth his own life._

_They left him there, bleeding and whimpering, somehow unable to summon his magick to protect himself._

_Steve found him, of course, and carried him (because puberty had done good for him and he was tall and muscled and strong) to the hospital where Bucky shook and cried in a nightmare that lasted and lasted._

_And when he came out of it, his magick was there again, but now he feared to use it, stuffed it down until it would explode out of him at the worst moments._

_“Your magick is beautiful,” Steve would tell him. “Use it. Show me how you feel.” Bucky would shake his head and retreat underneath the mountain of blankets on his bed, so Steve would slip in with him and whisper kindness until Bucky was strong enough to face the world._

 

Tear tracks have made a path down her cheeks, and she touches him gently, runs fingers down the arm she’s never seen without a shirt. “Oh, Bucky,” she whispers.

His hands are clenched, so she unravels his fingers, pushes her hands into his so he’s gripping onto her instead. His nails leave marks in her skin.

“It took me a long time to feel safe using my magick,” he sighs. “But I’m there now, and it doesn’t hurt when I use it, and I’m not so scared.” He shakes his head. “I’m not making sense anymore.”

Impulsively, she leans forward and kisses his cheek. “I think you’re brave.”

“Thanks. So...”

“So.” She stands up, stretches, punches a few times at an invisible enemy when the silence gets too heavy. “We’re all kinds of messed up, aren’t we?”

“Quite the pair.” He looks at her like he wants to say something, but only his eyes speak.

 

day 68

“Would it be weird if I kissed you?”

Water spurts out of Bucky’s mouth, and he drops the bottle and lets it empty itself on the floor.

“Here? Now??”

“No, just sometime.” She can’t help but laugh at him.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind at all. But only if you really want to.”

She walks up close to him, looks straight at his eyes so he can feel the truth of her words. “I do. I want to.”

He nods, never looking away, passes a hand over her arm. She can feel the electricity build between them.

“What are you giving me?” she murmurs.

“Exactly how I feel right now.”

“Oh.” She has to swallow a few times in order to get her brain working again. “Cool.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh, his eyes crinkling up at the sides.

“Do you know when you’re gonna? I’d like to have my teeth brushed at least.”

She shrugs. “Whenever it’s right.”

“Cool.” He picks up his water bottle. “I can deal with that.”

 

day 84

He traces the blue-green of her veins, imagines that there is an ocean inside of her, lapping at the shores of her skin, waiting for the tide to come in and turn her into the most beautiful wolf.

“I love you a lot,” he mumbles into her hair.

She turns to look at him, slow smile spreading across her lips. Her fingers stroke his cheek gently, scrape across stubble. Her touch makes him holy, he thinks. He is consecrated now, cleaned and purified.

His magick tumbles through his nerves, tumultuous and feverish and tingly.

“My magick likes you.”

“Hm?”

“When I’m with you, it’s happy. It feels good.”

“Cool.” She smiles at the ground. “With you, my wolf is content. She just sits here and basks in this, whatever it is.”

“You’re lovely, Nat’s wolf,” Bucky says into her chest, where she’s told him she can feel her wolf-self most strongly.

“She says--”

“I know. I can feel her.”

“Feel her? What do you mean”

“I understand her. I can feel what she’s feeling.”

“Can you always feel people’s magick?” she asks.

“Only if they let me in,” he whispers, worshipping her.

“Oh,” she sighs. Then, “I’m glad. I didn’t mean to let you in, but I’m glad.”

 

day 117

She starts staying at his place often, sleeps over on his couch (he can’t convince her to stay on his bed). He is honored that she trusts him so.

He doesn’t ask any questions when night after night, she wakes up sobbing and screaming, and she doesn’t mind when the steady _thump thump_ of the punching bag echoes from his room hours after he says he’s going to sleep.

They don’t try to comfort each other, and in the mornings, they don’t talk about.

But one night, she wakes him up, pushes at him in a panic until he he’s blinking and aware.

“What is it?”

“I dreamt--I dreamt that he was back, and he stole me again. He was hideous and scarred and angry and big, and--”

“It’s not real, Nat. It’s not real. Shh.”

“How do you know?” she screams. Her voice tears from her throat her with so much pain and terror it makes him sick to hear it.

“Because I _know_. And even if it is...you’d destroy him. You’re so strong. So strong.” He takes her face between her hands, forces her to look at him. “And I’m here. I won’t let anyone touch you.”

She collapses in sobs. “I don’t...remember...actually killing him. Memories are hazy when I’m a wolf. I’ve always just assumed...but maybe he’s alive. Maybe he’s trying to find me--”

Bucky can’t think of anything to say, anything that will calm her. So he just clutches her tight, sends peace to her. Holds on.

 

day 153

It’s winter now. Nat’s always hated these months. Somehow they mess with her mind, bring back memories that she thought she’d gotten rid of. Maybe it’s because the Incident happened in December, because his hands and voice are tangled bewilderingly with cold and ice and snow. She doesn’t dare to sleep because every night, she is forced to relive the worst moments of her life. She’s tired of waking up drenched in sweat and sick to her stomach.

Dark bags grow steadily darker under her eyes, and there’s a translucent look to her that Bucky can’t help but notice. He feels it too, the change in atmosphere. He’s been feeling it more and more, can’t stop it from bringing him low. His magick flows sluggishly in his veins and takes a dark turn the way it always does come this time. He hurts people without meaning to, causes minor mess-ups and accidents just by being in a place. He’s always tired, always scared.

Steve tries to help. He does. But sometimes being around him is too much because even still, even as Steve is twice as big as him, he feels the need to take care of him, protect him. And Sam is great, funny and kind, but he thrives in the winter; his magick loves it.

So Bucky makes a lot of coffee and tries to do good magick only and generally ends up in Nat’s bed or her couch (or she ends up in his).

_Just gotta get through December,_ he tells himself. _Just gotta get through January._

 

day 176

“Hey, I got dinner,” she yells, slamming open Bucky’s apartment door..

There’s no answer.

“Bucky?”

The house is totally still. Fear prickles at the nape of her neck. She dumps the Chinese takeout on the counter and prowls forward, balancing on the balls of her feet. She can’t hear anything or anyone, and the only scent is his and hers and little of Steve and Sam, all mingled together. Tentatively, she pushes open the door to his room.

He’s curled up in ball, totally stiff and unmoving.

Her heart drops into her stomach. She reaches out to touch him. He doesn’t move at all. She strokes a hand down his back, and a flash of pure terror washes over her. She jerks back, and it subsides. He must be unable to control his magick, she figures. He’s never given any negative emotions to her before.

She braces herself and presses her palm to his skin. The terror comes, and then there’s pain, and anger next, and finally, playing dimly in the back of her brain like a memory, is a scene. It’s the train station. His arm hurts, it hurts, it’s the only thing she can feel and it’s too much til there’s nothing at all. And then the whole thing starts over again, replays. With a start, she realizes the for him, the worst part is not his own pain. It’s the fact that Steve’s hurt again, that he can’t protect Steve, that he’s not invincible and omnipotent.

She’s shaking when she removes her hand, and she crawls next to him. Waits it out. It takes a few hours for him to come out of whatever trance he’s stuck in. His face is pale and his eyes deadened when he uncurls.

“The hell,” he rasps.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Nat says, words falling frantically out of her mouth. “You weren’t moving. And I could see your memories. Well, just one really.”

He shudders. “I know.”

“I’m so sorry.” She takes his hand. He flinches. “I felt your feelings. It was...it was a lot. A lot of pain.”

“Yep.” He sits up and swings his legs over the bed in one fluid moment, tries to stand. Falls back into bed.

“Don’t move. Please. Just stay there.”

He nods. He pulls the blankets over his legs, winces as he moves.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just my arm. It does that sometimes.” He rubs it. She catches sight of scars, red and inflamed. When he notices her stares, his jaw hardens and he dives under his comforter.

“I’ll get you some water,” she says softly.

“Thanks.”

 

day 200

Nat moves in (officially). It seems like the only logical move. Their nightmares aren’t as bad when they sleep in the same bed, bodies wrapped around each other til they’re basically one.  And anyways, it’s safer with the way Bucky’s been having more of those uncontrollable flashbacks.

Nat borrows Sam’s truck, loads her few boxes up, and drives them the few blocks over to Bucky’s--their--place. Liho-the-cat pouts underneath the passenger’s seat.

“This is home now,” she says to animal. She feels warm inside. Maybe it’s the seat warmer or the back warmer or the electric blanket that stays inside the truck (“that’s a little fucking extra,” she tells Sam) making her feel that way, or maybe it’s the fact that at some point in the past six months, home has ceased being the ranch style house down south or the apartment on the south side.

It’s Bucky. He is her home. She feels safe with him, safe and ridiculously happy, all light and bubbly inside.  

So here she is. About to move in with him. _It’s very strange_ , she thinks.

And even stranger, it feels _right_.

“This feels right,” she tells Liho. The cat meows back.

 

day 201

“Wanna see something cool?” Bucky yells above a box of Nat’s clothes.

“Okay,” she calls back, perched on the top shelf in his massive closet (she’s ridiculously excited by the fact that it can bear her weight; it reminds her of her closet in her childhood home).

“Come here.” He sets the box down. “So. I’ve been experimenting with shifting magic. It’s hard, but I’ve watched through your eyes and felt the way that your body and mind and the magick work together to make you a wolf.”

He closes his eyes, and at first, it seems that nothing is happening. But the air begins to shimmer around him, and light emanates from him, from his skin, and Nat feels his beauty deeply in her belly like she always does when he shows her magick.

Then he is not there anymore. A tiny sparrow is sitting on the floor, head cocked, chirruping at her.

“Oh, Bucky.” She laughs a little because it makes _sense_ that he’s tiny and delicate and exquisite. She holds her hand out, and he flutters up, rests on her fingers, wise eyes twinkling. She notices that the feathers of one wing are battered. Gently, she strokes them. He chirps, hops up and down. She laughs in delight, wishes that when she turns, she could be this lovely, this winsome.

With a flutter of his wings, he’s a human again. He closes his eyes and pants, exhausted, against the kitchen island.

“Why a sparrow?”

He shrugs. “I think that if I really tried, I could become something else. It was just what happened, what keeps happening. I guess it’s who I am inside. Little. Weak. Plain and brown.”

She shakes her head. “You were beautiful,” she insists.

He smiles, sad and sweet and melting, and _God_ she loves him. She’s across the room in an instant, kissing him, body pressed against his. “I love you,” she hisses against his teeth.

His hands tangle in her hair, and hers into his. She growls, predatory and wanting; the breaths between them are hot and short, and his teeth graze her lips, sending shocks of desire through her. But when his hands move down her body, her shattered mind drags her back to the Incident, and she pushes away, shaking.

“I’m sorry, I forgot, I’m sorry--” he says, concernedly gnawing on his lip.

She groans in frustration. “I can’t. I want you, and I can’t.”

He licks his lip, pushes his hair back in place, tries to breathe, to calm himself.

“Someday,” she says. “Someday I’ll be able to do whatever I want with you...”

“There’s no rush,” he says. “I will wait for you forever.”

She can’t meet his eyes. He has given her so much love that it is overwhelming. The room tingles with electricity and emotions and magick.

_This is it_ , she thinks. _This is everything that I’ve been waiting for. This is right._

“You are so good,” she whispers.

He reaches out to her, tears standing in his eyes, and she pushes into his chest, wraps her arms as tight as she can (which is very tight because she is very strong) around him, and they rest in the moment, in the now. In the safety that the other provides.

 

203

She sees him for the first time without a shirt. He’s walking out of the bathroom, towel low on his waist. His muscles are defined perfectly; his hipbones are achingly sharp, trailing enticingly down...

She swallows.

And then she notices his arm. Lines cross and arch over the length of it, dizzying and dissonant. They are obviously old, have been healed for a long time now, but there is something sickening about them, and she can feel how they must ache when the weather changes, how it brings shame to him. How he’s always covered up.

He freezes when he sees her staring at him. Tries to speak. Can’t.

“You...” She can’t find any words either.

“You had to see them sometime,” he manages at last.

She walks forward steadily, lifts her hands toward them, eyes asking permission. He nods, and she runs her cool fingers over his arm, starting at the top and tracing over the scars. She takes his fingers, massages them. The scars are the least noticeable there, but even still, there are too many. _So much evil has been recorded here_ , she thinks.

She brings his hand to her lips and kisses it reverently. “Oh Bucky. I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s in the past. It’s me now.”

“You’re beautiful, even so.”

His smile is bitter.

She inhales shakily, tries to find vulnerability, to share it with him. “My scars, you can’t see them with your eyes,” she says, “but they’re here. Inside.”

“You’ve let me see them.” His voice is husky. “You’ve opened yourself up. You’re so trusting. So good.”

She kisses him because her heart is too full to say anything else, and anyways, kissing him is safe now. Safe and sweet and warm.

 

day 267

Bucky discovers that in his sparrow form, he has no nightmares. It tires him to stay a bird, but he’d rather his mind be fresh than his body. Often, his bird-self sleeps nestled on Nat’s shoulder, head tucked under his good wing. As she wakes up, he shifts back into human and lets her curl around him, bury her nose in his side and grab on tight.

(Somehow, Liho knows that the sparrow is him. She never chases or hunts him, just watches with large, bright eyes.)

 

day 294

Nat discovers that (weirdly enough) she’s okay with the emotions she feels in her wolf form. She and Bucky have taken to traveling together, him in the air, her on the ground. They drop Liho off at Sam and Steve’s place and just _go_ , running and flying for miles at a time.

She is braver and stronger as a wolf, and her brain knows her past as fuzzy and distant, not sharp and painfully fresh. The only thing that’s real to her is the ground beneath her feet

They find themselves hating cities and longing for the open air, feel wilder. They don’t need words to talk anymore.

“If being animal feels so good,” Bucky asks one day, “why don’t we stay that way forever?”

“I think we’d lose ourselves,” Nat says.

“There’s not that much to lose.”

She smacks him because he’s being stupid, but she can’t get the idea out of her head.

 

day 365

A lone wolf, russet in color, small and well-muscled, travels through miles of plains and forests. Her only companion is a sparrow. Sometimes he flies above and before her. Sometimes he perches on her back.

 

If you were to see them, you would immediately understand that they have found peace in the only way that it has ever been possible. (At least, for them.)

(For them, at least) it is happiness.  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so grateful to have been partnered with my amazing artist. The amazing accompanying art can be found on her tumblr: http://octozoid.tumblr.com/


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